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'Project Eden' by Alva Edison Fleming

In the year 3013 we started. We sent mindless probes and we sent mindless drones on missions to seed Venus. Fertile and ripe, ready to seed, all we needed was to finally get past the 497 degrees Celsius, seeds that would not burst into flames when exposed. GMO's at their finest.It was a sacrifice. Hybridizing Teflon into our plants, but once it was in there was no taking it out and we had no choice. Make Venus habitable or perish with the Earth. Our own fault, failure to use renewable resources we stripped the planet dry.

By the year 3050 lush rain forests covered Venus. The plants prepared her well for us. Project Eden was a success. The plants consumed the green house gases and before you knew it the temperatures began to drop. In 40 years they were tolerable. It was time to move. Consumption and pollution from humanity were needed to slow the process before the falling dominoes took Venus to an ice age.The wealthy began to leave, began to colonize.At this point the Earth's population had dropped to 13 billion. The Earth shuddered under the weight of humanity. Famine could not be prevented. It was not cost effective to do so. People starved. The population had peaked at 20 billion but starvation and disease allowed it to grow no further.As the wealthy left it set in. People began to realize that the poor and undesirable would be left behind.Society was separated by heavily armed and fortified pockets of technology.Those who tried to force their way in would not walk away. The defense mechanisms were precise and they were deadly.Only those who could afford to survive would.Picture one of those towns in the country, where you pull into town and there is a sign, "Eden, pop. 978,453".The common man watched every day. The glow and trails of rockets as the wealthy departed planet Earth.The future of humanity heading out, knowing they would not be a part of that future.With the wealthy gone, the desalination plants, the farm factories, everything began to fail. There were pockets here and there of farmers but the mobs and masses would turn on them to take what they had often destroying their farms to eat for a few weeks. All consuming hordes. Some held on for years but once they ran out of ammunition they would be swarmed and overwhelmed.The end of humanity on Earth was not pretty. Famine led to hunger, hunger led to in fighting, desperation. Finally there was no other option, canibalism led to disease and humanity on Earth passed.Silence, life no more...

Somewhere on Venus."The sensors have failed to pick up any signs of life on Earth for 36 hours.""It is done. They suffer no more. The cream always rises to the top. We are the cream. We shall bury the Earth. As generations pass we shall take the Earth away from their memories, teach that god created man in his own image. The masses shall fall before us and live as we foretell them how the creator has said they shall live. They shall do our bidding and we shall be their masters without them even realizing."

“She’s not dead, you know,” a voice beside me says. The woman sharing the park bench in Kensington Palace Gardens has been observing me write on the back of a postcard. Years have passed since that immeasurable worldwide torrent of grief. Even so less than fifteen minutes ago, I’d found myself unable to walk past that famous face on a display of vintage cards at a Bayswater Road stall. “Diana’s not dead.” The woman shifts on her thighs and re-settles herself on the bench, a faint unidentifiable smell exuding from her dirty grey overcoat. Really, I can’t help myself when it comes to Diana. You have had to be around in her time to understand the mesmerising effect she had on people. “Oh?” “She wasn’t in that coffin.” “Oh?’ Despite myself, I am intrigued. The woman eyes me steadily, holding me fast with her gaze. “No. She’s in a mental institution.” The tone is matter of fact. “Under lock and key. They’ve kept it from everyone.” She gives me time to consider this, turning her attention to a m…

The little dog is tethered in the sun. From a distance, she has a rough coat. But when I’m close enough to stroke her, inside the pool of her reflection on the slow-baked sand, she is soft. You tell me not to touch. “Fleas, Simon,” you say. I drag your case up the hill. So many clothes. All from the cheap shop so you can justify their number, their casual disposability. I hoped you would spend all week in your white swimming costume. But you want changes, multiple changes. The room disappoints you. The humming fridge disturbs your sleep. The toilet gasps and gurgles. The ceiling fan struggles to stir air thicker than Brown Windsor soup. “I can’t breathe,” you say. The little dog cries all night. You burn on the beach, so you stay in the room. You smother your skin with cream, but refuse to let me baste you. I buy you more lotion—"Too watery, too melon scented"—from the shabby shop. Down the hill, up the hill. You want stifado in a carton. Down to the jaded restaurant, up again. Yo…